


Two Brothers

by Beleriandings



Series: Tales of Lake Mithrim [10]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-30
Updated: 2013-09-30
Packaged: 2017-12-28 00:33:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/985510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beleriandings/pseuds/Beleriandings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Celegorm and Maedhros meet again for the first time after Fingon's rescue of Maedhros.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two Brothers

The two of them stood in front of the small wooden door, in the midst of a small, hastily-constructed cluster of huts at the far side of the camp, joined by covered walkways. Findekáno’s hand was positioned protectively on the door handle, standing so that his body half blocked the doorway. Findekáno had changed, Tyelkormo thought. The differences were subtle, his face a shade paler and thinner, a hard glint in his eye and a slight, disdainful twist of his lip as he regarded his cousin. Or maybe it was how he held himself, with his shoulders rounded defensively, but his jaw tilted upwards a few more degrees, defiant. Either way, it made Tyelkormo a little uneasy. More than he cared to admit, in fact. It shouldn’t surprise him, really, he knew. But as it was, he felt a strange mixture of the urge to hug Findekáno and to punch him. He swallowed and stared determinedly at Findekáno’s face, forcing himself to listen to what he was saying.

“ - and he’s still very weak. His body and his spirit are far from healed, even if he doesn’t realise it sometimes, so  _please_ , Tyelkormo, try to… don’t… well… try to _behave yourself_ , please.”

Tyelkormo gritted his teeth, hands unconsciously balling into fists. Findekáno was no longer the excessively cheerful, relentlessly well-behaved, constant house-guest of a younger cousin he had once been, but he still managed to glow with a halo of assumed moral superiority that set Tyelkormo’s teeth on edge. He knew he should be grateful. No, he  _was_  grateful. But he hoped that Findekáno would leave before the urge to hit him grew too strong.

He paused for a moment, biting back a sharp retort before he spoke again, choosing his words carefully. “Certainly, Findekáno. Maitimo is  _my_  brother, after all, and I am not planning to hurt him, or whisper words against you in his ear. No need to worry yourself. I simply want to  _see_  him, as Macalaurë and Moryo and Pityo have already. If that’s quite  _alright_  with you, of course.” If his cousin was going to be patronising, Tyelkormo would do his best to reply in kind, even ifFindekáno had saved all of his brothers a hundred times over.

If his words had had any effect on Findekáno, however, it did not show on his face. He only sighed softly, pursing his lips a little. When he spoke, his voice was mild. “Quite. But Tyelkormo, if you were planning to use this opportunity to see Irissë later, I must tell you now that she doesn’t want to see  _you_. She made that entirely clear.”

Tyelkormo froze, trying to keep his face neutral. “I assure you, I was not planning to do so. I only want to visit Maitimo. Then I’ll be gone, back across the lake where I don’t have to  _inconvenience_ you  _people_ with my presence anymore.” Try as he might, he could not help his voice turning into a snarl, his lip curling. That much at least was even  _true_ , he thought bitterly. He did not feel remotely ready to see Irissë, not yet. He hated to admit how much he feared that meeting, felt a wave of anxiety at the thought of her cutting words, and the new hollowness he pictured in her eyes. He did not know how he would react.

Maybe Findekáno had heard the truth in his words, or seen the sudden panic in his eyes, for he seemed to soften, if only a fraction. He sighed again. “Alright.” He turned and knocked on the door. “Maitimo?” he called softly. “Tyelkormo’s here to visit you. Do you feel well enough to see him?”

There was a short pause, and then a muffled voice spoke from inside the room. “Of course. Come in.”

Tyelkormo’s stomach twisted, a slight flicker of nervousness coming to him unbidden. He drew a deep, steadying breath. It was only Maitimo, he told himself. Only his brother. Findekáno held his gaze for a few seconds, and then opened the door, setting it ajar for him before tactfully leaving him alone. Tyelkormo pushed it open and stepped inside, closing the door carefully and decisively behind him before turning to face the room.

The room itself was small and rather cramped, as sparse and sad as everything else he had seen of the camp. It was dominated by a low bed covered in furs and threadbare blankets, in which a barely-recognizable figure was cocooned. With a stab of shame, Tyelkormo realised that he would not have known his brother, dismissing the figure before him as simply one of the regrettable casualties of war, of which there had been so many. Close to death, and worthy of his pity, but no more than a passing glance. His face and arms were painfully thin, his once long, luxuriant hair cropped short and uneven, brushing his angular jawline. The once bright, burnished-copper colour that reminded Tyelkormo so much of their mother had curdled to the shade of dried blood. Maitimo’s exposed skin was mostly ridged and puckered with new pink scar tissue, but Tyelkormo could see older lines of pale silver below. Scars on top of scars, he realised with a sickening jolt. His right arm ended in a swathe of bandages, where his hand should be. Tyelkormo forced himself not to look, to concentrate on his face. His once elegant, aquiline nose had been broken, maybe more than once, and had healed crooked. That and the slight twist given to his lip by a large scar running diagonally across his face gave him a strange, twisted expression, a sense of perpetual tension. But his eyes were flat voids, filled with nothing but a well of pain that seemed to never end. He met those eyes, and Maitimo held his gaze for a few long, silent seconds, before Tyelkormo could bear it no longer. He looked at the floor.

“Maitimo…” he mumbled, still staring at his feet. “I… you…” This was not how he had expected things to go. All the carefully-chosen words he had steeled himself to say had fled from his mind. He kept looking at the ground, unconsciously twisting the heavy woollen fabric of his cloak between his fingers, angrily fighting back the hot tears that were suddenly pricking at his eyes. “How… how are you?” It was entirely the wrong thing to say, he knew, and he immediately regretted it.

“Tyelko.” His brother’s voice was quiet and hoarse, but still very distinctly Maitimo’s, and it brought with it a flood of memory, a whole childhood filled with the reassuring constancy of that voice. “I am… I suppose I cannot say that I am well, because that would not be true. But I am alive. And I am thankful for that, in many ways. I am glad you came to see me.”

Tyelkormo nodded, looking up to meet his brother’s eye again and wishing he were anywhere but here. He wondered what was the proper thing to say in this situation. How did one even begin to cross the gulf that lay between them? He took a deep breath. “Maitimo, I wanted to say - ” he broke off, hesistating.

“That you’re sorry?” Maitimo’s voice was rougher now, bitter. “Don’t bother, Tyelko. Macalaurë came to visit the other day and expressed apologies a hundred times over in every way he could possibly think of, on all of your behalfs, as did Moryo and Pityo. It didn’t change a thing, and I am rather sick of it. Besides,” his mouth curved into something that was too close to a grimace of pain to be counted as a smile, “apologising never did suit you. And it will fix precisely nothing.”

He gestured at the broken stump of his right wrist. “You’re doing rather better than most at avoiding staring though” he said wearily. “I might even say I was impressed.”

Tyelkormo moved a step nearer, his voice catching in his throat. “Are – are you in pain?” he managed.

Maitimo considered this, as if deciding how much to tell him. “It’s difficult to say. I suppose I am, as they tell me I screamed when they stitched my wounds.” His voice was flat now, emotionless and horribly detatched. “And yet, I don’t remember pain. All this – it feels like a dream, Tyelko. As if I’ll wake up, and be back  _there_ , as if that’s the only thing that is truly real _-_ ” he checked himself. “I’m sorry. I am glad to see you, truly.”

“I know.” Suddenly Tyelkormo felt a flood of pity for the figure in the bed that bore so little resemblance to his eldest brother. He sat down awkwardly on the hard wooden chair next to the bed, clasping his brother’s hand between his own. Maitimo’s fingers felt frighteningly frail, like the bones of a young bird trapped in his large, calloused hands.

His words came in a rush, tripping over each other. “Maitimo, I wanted to tell you… I argued to go and get you back.” Macalaurë had told him not to speak of such things, but he didn’t care. “I wanted us all to go and save you. I know it’s useless now, but I just – I wanted you to know.”  He finished lamely, knowing that his words changed nothing.

Maitimo’s face darkened. “Then you were a sentimental fool, Tyelko. I told Macalaurë not to go after me, if something should happen. He obeyed. And even if any of you had tried to rescue me, you would have failed. The only reason I am alive is because Manwë pitied Findekáno” – he grimaced – “not me. And he would not have offered the same help to any son of Fëanáro.”

It still did not seem right to Tyelkormo, but he did not press the point. “You will make a strong King when you are healed.”

Maitimo hesitated almost imperceptibly, making Tyelkormo wonder if he had only imagined it. “Perhaps, Tyelko, perhaps.”

They lapsed into silence, which soon began to stretch out uncomfortably between them. Tyelkormo was relieved when Maitimo broke it. “What news from across the lake? I could get precious little information about your doings out of Macalaurë.”

Tyelkormo grimaced. He was not surprised that Macalaurë had been unwilling to discuss their lives. Existence in their camp was hard and cold and repetitive. But how did one convey that to Maitimo, who had known only pain for so long, more pain than any of the living could possibly imagine? Tyelkormo struggled to think of something positive to say.

“Tyelpe has grown since - since you last saw him. He has progressed as a craftsman, too, and Pityo and I are starting to teach him to shoot, and to use a sword, and he seems to have a talent for everything he attempts.”

“Ah! I did wonder. So, what do you think? Do we have another young prodigy on our hands? It must please Curvo, at least.”

Tyelkormo fidgeted uncomfortably, already regretting bringing up the subject as he thought of the change in Curufinwë, how a door behind his eyes had seemed to close when their father had died, and then lock when Maitimo had been taken. How it had remained closed, with his heart hidden away tightly behind it, not even opening for his son.

“It has been - difficult” he admitted. “Curufinwë has changed.” Maitimo would find out soon enough anyway, he reasoned. “He practically only sees Tyelpe now when he gives him lessons in the forge. And Tyelpe has had a hard time. He misses his mother, I think, although he never says anything. And he is still so young. I’ve been trying to teach him what I can, to talk to him, but…” he tailed off uselessly. Again there was that feeling that in front of his brother he was always making excuses, or perhaps that he  _should_  be making excuses. Desperately he tried to rescue the sinking conversation. “He  _is_  turning into a bit of a prodigy though. Oh! I almost forgot!” he unclipped the silver brooch pinning his cloak. “He made this as practice, and gave it to me as a gift. Even Curvo looked slightly pleased with his work.”

He handed the brooch to Maitimo, who took it with interest, turning it in his hand. It was silver, relatively unadorned except for the eight-pointed star of the house of Fëanáro engraved in the metal, set in the centre with a small green stone. Once such jewellery had been commonplace, even considered too common for a prince. Once, in another lifetime, when they had all been accustomed to wearing bright gemstones whenever they left the house. Tyelkormo watched as Maitimo handled it, observing the motions of his left hand, clumsy and halting, and yet also deliberate and determined, each movement part of some greater struggle.

“You’re right, this is very fine work, especially for one so young” said Maitimo “and Tyelpe seems to be developing his own style. It’s not quite like Curvo’s, or even Atar’s. Interesting.” He handed the brooch back. “It is a shame that he did not have as much chance to have a childhood as we did. Strange, is it not, how it seems that when one is perfectly happy, one must necessarily also be completely unaware of it…” Maitimo stopped himself. He looked away.

Tyelkormo sought again for a way to change the subject, panicking a little. “I could ask Curvo if he would bring Tyelpe to visit you? Although I’m not sure I’d trust Nolofinwë’s people to be civilized to Curvo, or Curvo to be civilized back. Even I had trouble.” He grinned suddenly. “You should have seen the  _glare_ Turukáno gave me when he and Findekáno met me at the gate. That look alone could have killed a horse.”

But Maitimo didn’t seem to find this funny. His face was closed, and when he spoke his voice, although still quiet, had a hard edge.  “ _Eru_ , Tyelko. Why can’t you all just behave like adults for once? Turukáno lost his wife. As a matter of fact, Turukáno and Irissë lost their youngest brother, and they thought they had certainly lost their eldest brother too. They very nearly did. Does that situation sound at all  _familiar_  to you? Or are you all too absorbed in your petty little disputes to even consider it?”

Tyelkormo said nothing.

“If we are going to survive here, to build a new life for ourselves, we need to get over all these divisions. And yes, I know it’s not only your fault. I heard you and Findekáno’s whispered argument outside the door – yes, I heard it. I may still be weak but I’m not deaf – and I know the fault was his as much as yours, in this case. But the fact remains that in general Fin is at least trying to be civil towards you all, although he has no obligation to do so, and Manwë knows, you’ve done absolutely nothing to deserve it. And partly he does it for me, but mostly he does it by virtue of being a  _decent person_ , Tyelkormo. And sometimes I feel like none of you have the slightest clue what that even means anymore.”

Tyelkormo stared at him, shocked by this outburst. Maitimo, he thought, seemed a little surprised himself, and he got the distinct impression that his brother had not spoken this many words at once in a very long time.

“Maitimo, I - ”

Maitimo spoke at the same time. “I’m sorry, Tyelko. I didn’t mean… I just… Fin has done more for me than I deserve, more than I will ever deserve as long as I live. And he makes me feel more alive than I have since –  _before_. His presence makes me feel like a person again, as though somehow I’ve been given another chance. So I will not have you treating him with disrespect, or saying cruel things about him or Nolofinwë’s people. What happened to you, Tyelkormo? What about Irissë? Or have you forgotten her?”

Tyelkormo’s face stiffened again. His brother, at least, had not lost the ability to tease out his insecurities, the places where he was most vulnerable. “Nothing.” He muttered angrily, staring at the ground. “Nothing has happened to  _me_.” He paused for a moment, thinking. “Perhaps I should go back.”

Maitimo must have seen his discomfort, as he seemed to relent a little. “Of course. If you like. It has been good to see you. Remember what I said.”

Tyelkormo grimaced. “I could not possibly forget it, brother… trust me.” Then his resolve broke. “Heal quickly, and return to us soon, won’t you?”

“Of course I will.”

 


End file.
